


in your warmth I feel how cold it can get

by elainebarrish



Category: Gone Girl (2014), Gone Girl - Gillian Flynn
Genre: F/F, also the title has nothing 2 do w anything, this is so shit I'm so sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-29
Updated: 2016-09-29
Packaged: 2018-08-18 11:51:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8161168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elainebarrish/pseuds/elainebarrish
Summary: Rhonda fucking Boney is just a fucked up reminder of those shitty weeks, but you find that she's a reminder you want to have around, a reminder that you could live with, that you want to live with. A reminder that you could turn into something else, even if she always smells like coffee and you've always hated the police. You're not sure why she gets a free pass on so many things, but you think it might just be because she looks better in a white shirt than anyone you've seen in a while.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [helenecixous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/helenecixous/gifts).



> this is so fucking bad I'm so sorry fuck I'm like hashtag embarrassed putting it up but I finished it and like it's not really fair 2 the four fics that exist if I don't put it up even though it sucks lmao. I lost their voices like halfway through the last one probably so this is just. not even anything.

When Boney walks in, all Police posture and that walk that made you immediately aware of the gun on her hip, you’re thrown back to over a year ago, the last time you saw her, the last time the two of you tried to convince Nick that going back to Amy is quite possibly the worst idea he’d ever had. She’s even holding a stupidly big cup of coffee, and you swear you can already smell it, because she always smelt like coffee, coffee and something else you can’t place, something that you think might have been perfume but could also just be her. You’d stopped thinking about it, stopped thinking about anything that connected to one of the worst periods of your life, you were glad that you didn’t have to any more, and here she is, obviously still on duty, and you wonder what the fuck you’ve done now.

“Ah, if only seeing you could fill me with hope,” you start, frowning, trying not to glare at her.

“Unfortunately I’m just doing my job.” She says, and it would be like the two of you had never met if you didn’t recognise the way that she stands and the fit of her shirt and the slightly smug curve of her mouth. You wonder if they teach that inherent smugness at the police academy or if she just came out into the world looking like she was ready to tell someone they were wrong. “Did you see this man in here about three nights ago?” She shows you a picture with an economic flick of the wrist, and you wonder what the fuck this guy has got himself involved in for Boney to be the one investigating.

“Oh uh yeah? I think so?” You squint at the picture and you’re pretty sure he ordered a Budweiser but didn’t stay long enough for a second drink, and you tell her this, and she raises an eyebrow at you.

“Did you learn anything else about him? Name? Any idea where he was going next?”

“Oh yeah, he told me his social security number while he was at it.” You know sarcastic isn’t the way to go but you also know that she knows that that is a stupid question; you serve drinks, you don’t do the chatting thing, and you don’t even know the names of most of your regulars, just their drinks and which of them are shitty drunks.

“Ma’am this is just routine, if you could cooperate please.” You almost want to punch her for calling you ma’am, and you swear her mouth twitches at the way you glare at her.

“He wasn’t a regular, I don’t remember him being any twitchier than people usually are, I don’t remember whether he finished his beer or not. Is that cooperating enough?” You’re done with her coffee smell and her good posture and her jaw that’s sharp enough to cut you, done with her being here where she hasn’t been since Amy fucked everything up.

“That’ll do, I’ll be back if I think of anything else, here’s my card in case you remember something.” She puts it on the bar, doesn’t even hand it to you, and you want to remind her of the worst time of your life, of her place in it, to remind her of that time she fucking arrested you.

“I won’t, and I have your number already anyway, remember?”

She just nods in response to that, accepts the harsh reminder for what it is, and you regret lashing out, because it’s not her fault that she got assigned to that case. She sees your jaw relax before she turns, shoots you a tight smile.

“Well, have a good day.” She says, and your manners kick in, making you say “you too” to her retreating back, watching her walk back out of your bar and probably back out of your life, and you still notice the sway of her hips underneath her blazer and you want to scream at yourself. 

You seethe about it for the entire day, angry at her for no other reason than making you face up to the things you’ve tried to forget about. It’s only been a year and you’ve already done a grand job of pushing it down, of pretending it never happened, that the Amy Nick talks about is not the Amy that faked her own death in the hopes that Nick would die for it, that the Amy he had a fucking kid with is not that Amy. You all should have known that someone who was referred to as Amazing Amy growing up would have some fucking issues. Nick comes in and he doesn’t understand why you’re angry with him, and when you explain he just looks confused, says that you told him that you were okay with everything, that you weren’t blaming him, and you just sigh.

“Nick it’s just. The whole thing is so fucked up, you know? And I’d convinced myself that it was fine, I’d separated the Amys in my head, but Boney showing up was just like a fucking throwback to that time I got fucking arrested.” You’re furious and Nick is just giving you that nice guy blank stare he does when he doesn’t know what to do and you want to punch him.

“Go, what are you expecting me to do?” he asks, hands held wide, like you’re attacking him or something. “Why are you even this annoyed about Boney, anyway? She was just doing her job.” A slow smile spreads across his face, that smile that you’ve been seeing ever since you had your first crush on your English teacher when you were twelve and he’d worked it out. “I thought you got over your older woman thing?”

“Don’t be such an asshole, I don’t like her,” you try hard to sound as angry as possible, and you’re glad that you’ve mostly grown out of blushing.

“Everything about this scenario is practically shouting that you do like her,” he says, and he’s impossibly smug but this exchange just makes you nostalgic for the relationship you used to have, the people that the two of you used to be.

“Nick. You know I hate authority.” You try, and he rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, when they’re not hot. Although I’ve never understood your taste,” he laughs, and you sort of want to punch him for the tone that clearly says that he thinks Boney’s not hot.

“You just don’t understand how good a well tailored shirt can be,” you say, rolling your eyes, trying to ignore him, hoping that he won’t pursue it further.

Mostly he just gives you knowing looks whenever topics such as the police are casually mentioned, and you wish that he’d give it a rest but you’d also missed it, this stage of having a crush, the stage where it’s just you and Nick that know and Nick teasing you relentlessly about it whenever he could, often in front of the person in question. For that reason you fervently hope that Boney doesn’t come back, or that she at least does not come back when Nick is there, so that you don’t have to live through terrible innuendos and barely disguised comments.

When Boney does come back Nick is not present, and you think that she looks tired, but maybe a little like she’s relieved, and she’s still wearing her gun and still has her coffee.

“We’re not open,” is all you say, because it’s eleven am, and surely she isn’t here for a drink.

“I thought I’d just do you the courtesy of updating you on the case,” she says with a small smile, eyebrow raised at your continued hostility.

“It’s not like I know the dude,” you frown, but you don’t attempt to shoo her out of The Bar.

“Well regardless, we found him,” she shrugs. “I’m surprised he only stayed here for one drink; he’d gone missing because he’d been drunk for three days.” Her smile is still lopsided, and it reminds you of all of the shitty straight romance books that talk about crooked smiles and how charming they are, and how you’d never understood (you don’t think that you get it now, you absolutely do not think that).

“I suppose this isn’t really the kind of place you go for three day benders,” you smile, and then immediately you’re annoyed at yourself for that, because you were trying to keep up with presenting yourself as exasperated by her presence.

“I’ll be sure to pass that fact on to any alcoholics I know.” She sounds smug, as always, and she’s leaning against the bar, still drinking coffee, and you almost, almost laugh.

“Anyway that’s all I came for,” she smiles, and you wonder if the way that her hard edges seem to blur and soften is purposeful.

“I guess I’ll see you around.” You say, slightly begrudgingly, and you wonder if she seems disappointed by your lack of response, by the fact that you don’t engage her in further conversation, and you don’t know how to explain that that’s just because you’re endlessly shit at small talk.

“I’m sure you will,” she says, almost smiling, still soft around the edges, and wishes you a good day and walks out, coffee still in hand, the smell lingering after her.

After everything happened you’d walk into a Starbucks and wonder if you’d see her, and you never did, and you curse yourself now for wondering when obviously she went to a different one or something, or she just became very good at avoiding at you. Maybe she just ducked out of whatever coffee shop she was in whenever she saw someone she had previously arrested. Maybe she just had a really fancy coffee maker and then bought disposable Starbucks cups in bulk. So when you bump into her in the fucking supermarket of all places, you’re confused and slightly furious, and try not to think about the fact that you’re just drifting around carrying yogurt and doughnuts. You’re just trying to pick up some coffee, when you notice that she’s just zoomed in front of you and stolen the last bag of your favourite brand, and you want to punch her, but that’s mostly because half the reason you’d been drinking so much coffee is her fault, her and her need to show up in your bar after a year with coffee in hand, twice. You’re outraged, and tired, and she turns around to you looking like you’re about to throw your yogurt at her.

“Look, that bag you’re holding, I was making a beeline for it. It’s mine,” you hope your voice conveys how angry you are but you might just sound tired.

“Possession is nine tenths of the law,” is all she replies with, and you take pleasure in that all she’s holding is coffee and an avocado. You also notice that she’s taller than you are, and that you’re standing much closer to her than you strictly think was necessary, but you had already been making your way over here when she surprised you by overtaking you.

“Fuck off, look I just really need this coffee.” You try, and she looks smug as hell, even worse than usual, and you wish you were wearing something other than the rattiest hoodie you own with jeans that are weirdly loose because you haven’t washed them in a while.

“How much do you need it?” she asks, still smirking, and you roll your eyes.

“I ran out at home and at The Bar, okay? Come on, it’s not like the police station can run out of coffee.”

“That sounds like a pretty desperate situation that you’re in there.” Her expression turns sly, and you dread whatever she’s about to say. “How about an exchange? You give me something for the coffee?”

“What the fuck could you possibly want?” You’re baffled, but you feel like she probably has something up her sleeve, because she seems to be one of those kinds of people, one of those people that’s always in control of the situation, even when you think she’s not.

“Hmm,” she pretends to think for a moment, even though you knew that she had something in mind as soon as she mentioned it. “A date, maybe?”

“What the fuck if you just wanted to go on a date you could have just asked,” you stare at her in disbelief as she smiles victoriously at you.

“Is that a yes?” she goads, and you want to punch her but you also want to kiss her, and while you don’t think the supermarket is the place for it you figure this kind of just sums the two of you up as people.

“How overt do I need to be?” You ask, still sounding angry, and she just shrugs, practically grinning, or the closest you’ve ever seen her to it anyway, so you kiss her, the curve of her smile soft against yours, something that’s more a statement than a first kiss to remember, and she looks pleased when you pull away, and you wish that you weren’t both holding things, and also that you were not in the middle of a supermarket, and that she wasn’t holding the last bag of your favourite coffee.

“That’d do it,” she laughs. “You’re not having this coffee though.”

“What the fuck! Come on, I agreed to the date, you even got a little extra in there, what do I have to do?”

“There’s no way this bag of coffee is going home with anyone but me, but you could always visit and I can make you a cup.” She starts to turn, smiling, and you stop her.

“I’ll see you at 6am next time I’m having a really shitty night’s sleep, then.” You’re practically pouting now, figuring that if kissing doesn’t work looking adorable might, and she just laughs.

“You know how much coffee I drink, I think it would be more of an issue if I were the one turning up every time I wanted some. Also your coffee machine is probably shit,” she starts to walk away and you let her this time, only letting that damn grin spread across your face once she’s not looking at you. “I’ll text you date details,” she throws over her shoulder.

“Do you even have my number?”

She stops halfway up the aisle and turns, shrugging. “As much as I hate to mix business and pleasure I couldn’t make myself delete it.” And then she’s gone, and you’re left grinning at your second favourite coffee brand.


End file.
